Origin of a Scar
by rachael-green-bakura
Summary: Akefia finally tells us how he got the triple scar on his face. Oneshot.


Don't own Yugioh.

I wanted to try three things and I did all three: Write in First Person, write in present tense, and explain **my** theory as to how 'Kifa got his triple scar. Because that's never actually explained. So 17-year-old Kif tells us a little story. This is 3 years before Seaon 5. He's 20 in Season 5. Look it up. It's real short, just a page and a half. He gets off topic a few times. Kif must have ADD. Or maybe that's me. Either or.

* * *

My name is Akefia Bakura, the King of Thieves. I've been on my own since I was five, surviving by stealing and amusing myself by defiling the tombs of the royal family who took my life away. Tonight, I strike.

My target tonight is the tomb of the most recently passed Pharaoh, the grandfather of the current Pharaoh's brat, Atem. I never knew him as Pharaoh, he died before I was born, but that doesn't matter. Everyone in the royal family is the same.

I can see the Valley of the Kings on the horizon, and my excitement bubbles. I've been doing this for twelve years, and I still feel great amusement at the reaction of the palace fools when they find that one more of their ancestors' tombs has been broken into. If they find out at all.

I dismount my horse and enter the tomb. There are holes in the walls. A spike trap right away. Not bad. But not good enough either.

I dodge the trap and continue on. The old king must have liked spikes and pitfalls, as that was all I encountered. How boring. I like tombs with variety. Akunamkanen's great-grandfather, he was fun. He had one of every trap I'd ever encountered, and a few I hadn't. But I'm not here to talk about him.

Then I see the one thing that every thief loves, and the King of Thieves is no exception. A glimmer of gold shone in a room at the end of yet another blatantly obvious pitfall. Ra, this guy was boring. He never has anything new.

Which is why I don't think to _check_ for anything new in the treasure room. Or think anything of the suspicious candlesticks lining opposite walls. Or even notice the single word carved into each of the candles: Muut, the Coptic word for die. That arrogant moment was the biggest mistake of my life.

I hear the hiss and instinctively throw myself onto my back. Not quick enough. I swear loudly as I feel the two darts slice deeply across my face.

Sitting up slightly, I touch my stinging cheek. My fingers are wet with blood. Swearing under my breath, I tear a strip from one of the royal robes and wrap it around my head, covering the two horizontal slashes.

By the time I had filled my pockets with as much gold as I could carry, I was concerned. The pain is worse instead of better. I remove the bandages and gasp in pain as the air hits the wounds. Ra, it burns! The wounds had stopped bleeding as well. For cuts that deep, that wasn't a good sign.

With a sinking feeling in my gut, I pick up one of the darts still on the floor and examine it. I have to know what kind of toxin is on it and why my body hasn't fought it off. The tip of the dart is lathered with a sickly green substance. I taste some of it and quickly spit it out before dropping the dart, eyes widening in horror.

It's a rare type of poison, one that I hadn't taught my body to work up an immunity for yet. It stops the flow of blood, which explains why my wounds had stopped bleeding. The one hope was that it's extremely slow-acting; to ensure that was victim was in pain for as long as possible. It had only been a few minutes; it should all still be in the wounds. I should still be able to bleed it out if I make a new cut.

I draw my dagger and close my right eye. Hissing, I make a long vertical cut overtop of the poison-filled wounds, deeper than the others. The burning begins to lessen as the toxin leaves with the blood spilling down my face.

Getting out of the tomb is easier than getting in. I pushed my horse to the limits getting back to where I'm staying at the time as fast as possible. When I get there, I sit against the wall and watch the warm crimson droplets fall to stain the sand. I reach up to feel the three heavily bleeding wounds on my right cheek.

Scarred forever.


End file.
